Raymond Langston and the American Baskerville Case
by CarissimiMulier
Summary: When Dr. Ray Langston stumbles into a world that can't possibly exist, will he be able to stop the killer? Or will he be required to rely on someone close to him, whom he had never suspected of being this kind of help? Will he ask before it's too late?
1. The Parchment

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_Okay; I thought that in celebration of the release of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_, which is scheduled for June, I would write a crossover fanfic for this one. I will be crossing _Harry Potter_ with _CSI_. If you enjoy, good for you! You have a crappy taste in fanfics! If not, then hopefully you have a better taste in fanfics that the people that like this one._

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* * *

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"Sorry I'm so late, Nick," said Dr. Langston as he crossed under the police tape that had been put up.

"No prob," replied Nick, snapping a photo with a digital longlens. "What happened to get you here late, anyway?"

"Cars blocking the driveway. I had to take a cab to get here."

"Tell you what… when you get off shift today, I'll give ya a ride home." Nick looked up at Dr. Langston, smiling wide, then let his camera rest against his chest. He pulled out a notepad and finished jotting down his observations. "I just finished with photos of the body, but if you like you could go photograph the rest of the scene."

"I've got the markers in my kit," said Ray, opening the case and pulling on a pair of gloves, then grabbing his numbered yellow evidence markers. He stopped when Nick passed a light over the face of the victim.

"Looks like a cat got to his face before he died."

Ray shook his head. "Those wounds are too deep to be a cat's clawmarks. And even if they were shallow enough, they're not in fours or fives."

Nick looked up. "You know many five-fingered cats?"

"Several." He looked out at the area that had been marked off. "You keep our poor friend here company, and I'll see about the rest of the scene." Nick acknowledged him. As Ray swept the scene with his keen eye, he repressed the emotions that threatened to eat at him at the sight of the dead man.

Ray paid attention to the ground in front of him, taking small steps and always sweeping the ground slowly and carefully with his eyes. He didn't see much; a spot of blood that was too old to have been the victims. The man had only been dead a few hours at the most, and that did not leave enough time for blood to have begun to turn a light bluish-green color on concrete. Even so, Ray placed a marker on the dime-sized spot of blood and took a step back to photograph it, then take a few photographs with which he could report exactly where he had found the spot.

As he stood, Ray saw a shaft of wood lying three or for yards in front of him. Even from where he crouched on the concrete of the parking lot, Ray speculated the length of the dowel was between twelve and fifteen inches. He slowly stepped toward it and examined it with his head tilted. He marveled at the shape of it; one end, slightly thicker than the rest and about four or five inches, appeared to be a handle. Down the length of the rest of the shaft, he noted a concentric curly-Q pattern, not unlike a well-formed curly fry. When he closed in on it, he placed another marker, this one labeled with a large black "2," which was one higher in sequence than the one he had found the blood.

He stood and stepped back two paces, then snapped a couple of photos and correlated the discovery of the dowel to its location. When he was done, he stood and moved around to the marker, but even after three more passes of the entire scene, he found nothing of interest.

"Whatcha find, Ray?" said Nick, who met him at the end of the taped-off area closest to the victim.

"Nothing definitive. A spot of weeks-old blood and a wooden dowel of some sort." He pointed over to the second marker.

"Of all the odd things to find at a crime scene, you find a stick?" said Nick incredulously.

"This stick appeared to serve a fairly decorative purpose, but I can't be certain of what that might be until we actually get it back to the lab." Ray handed the camera back to Nick. "What about you? Did you find anything?"

"I'm waiting for David to get here. Should be… ah, right on time, like always!"

David coasted to a stop twenty yards away, shutting off the van and jumping out. "I've got the kit," he said, running up and ducking under the tape Nick lifted out of his way. "Okay…" He set down the case and immediately pulled out a pair of latex gloves. "So we've got a male, possibly mid-to-late twenties." He clucked his tongue and shook his head as he noticed the man's face. "What made those gashes on his face?"

"That's one of our concerns right now," said Ray, standing back and looking out across the scene again. "But it's not our number one priority. That would be to find out how he died, who killed him, and to catch the killer." He gazed sternly at David, who nodded and pulled out a thermometer. He inserted the instrument where the man's liver was and waited for it to calibrate.

"I wouldn't say there's any obvious COD, but we'll have to get him back to the morgue to be sure."

"Obviously," said Ray, pacing the perimeter and looking again for anything he might have missed.

He was interrupted when David made the usual sound that indicated his thermometer was finished in its work. "Liver temp's 97. Based on the temperature and assuming that he wasn't killed elsewhere and dumped, I'd say he died between three and seven hours ago."

"Isn't this neighborhood usually one of the ones in Vegas where no parking lot is ever closed?"

"There are off days and off seasons," reminded Ray, looking out at the road beyond, where few cars had passed since he had arrived. "Besides, even if someone had found him, there's no guarantee they were the ones who called police. It could've been somebody they told, or someone who passed here afterward."

"Yeah, but who would go and not report a body?"

"I heard," chimed in Dave as he took a look at the different marks on the victim, "that one time in the sixties, this woman and her family just stopped showing up in society. For forty years, their house went untouched; nobody ever went out to get mail or groceries, nobody came to visit… the neighbors somehow didn't seem to notice, or they didn't find it unusual. Eventually the authorities opened the door and found the residents. All of them had been dead of natural causes since at least the sixties."

"And your point is…?" said Nick.

Ray had the answer lined up. "Sometimes people don't see something as suspicious, and they don't bother to report it."

Back at the lab, Ray pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves and turned on his digital voice recorder. "CSI Ray Langston, June first, 2011. In the case of an unidentified Caucasian male in his mid or late twenties, have his only personal effects; one small drawstring bag of unknown content, and a scroll of some sort of paper or parchment." He paused to breathe and purge his mind of all but relevant thought, the way he always did when he was reviewing evidence.

"Will be first tackling the content of the drawstring bag. Appears to be leather or similar material, ruddy brown in color. The string looks like a similar substance, though slightly darker in color. Overall weight of the bag is five hundred grams exactly." Ray pulled on the lip of the bag and slowly drew it open. "Contents of the bag appear to be a number of coins of like design. All are gold, silver and bronze in color." He put his hand in the bag and withdrew a gold-colored coin. "On one of the gold-colored coins, there are what appear to be bitemarks. Unable to determine substance at this time." He turned the coin over in his hand and studied it thoroughly.

"The coin appears to have been minted with Roman numerals on either face." He peered closely at the letters minted on the face of the coin. "Letters appear across the top of the coin. Spelling: G - R - I - N - G - O - T - T - S."

For more than half an hour, Ray studied the bag full of gold, silver and bronze coins. When he finished, he turned to the parchment. "The paper appears to be fairly new. No sign of wear-ant-tear. It's tied with a red ribbon." He grabbed the scroll gently and took a pair of scissors from beside the scroll. As carefully as his hands would allow, he cut the ribbon in three or four snips of the blades and set it gently down on the table. "The scroll doesn't appear to have been rolled very tightly. Appears to be merely decorative."

Ray pulled the scroll open and allowed his eyes to read the contents carefully.

"The contents read: 'By the decree of the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, the creation of the Muggle-Wizard Intercooperative Department is hereby established forthwith to ensure the continued existence of Wizardkind, and to establish government relations between wizards and Muggles.'" Ray furrowed his brow.

If he ever managed to help solve this case, it was definitely going to be an odd one. He just hoped it didn't turn into a perpetual cosplay.


	2. Inside Azkaban

Draco sat across from his father, studying the small dark cell around him. There was little; a single cot held to the wall by magic. A feather mattress. A pillow of the same. Then he turned to study his father, who looked paler than his usual pale. Lucius's hair was thinning, his once luxurious hair, which shone like the sun off the water of a pristine lake, hung lank, dirty, matted and tangled.

"You'd better give it up, Father," said Draco, looking his father in the eye. "All the evidence is there. You killed that man, and they're going to have you. There's no use in hiding it anymore."

Lucius stared at his son in amazement. "You actually think I killed him, Draco? I may have been a murderer once, but this is absurd! I've fourteen years given up those ways! The Dark Lord is dead and with him my lust for a world of that sort!" He leaned forward, a pleading look in his eye. "Please, Draco, believe me. You know I would never kill!"

Draco shook his head and sat erect. "No. No, I don't know it. Look, Father… the evidence is against you. There's everything there. Your wand was used to kill Samuel, and they've determined that you used it in a duel with him!"

"What about Priori Incantatem?"

"What about it? They've used that and any other test they could think of! It's over, Father! Use some sense and think about what it means." He stared the old man down. "I wish you'd just confess and tell them what happened."

"And be condemned for something I didn't do? Do you think I'm a fool, Draco? Do you really think I'd confess to a crime you know I didn't commit?"

"I've told you before, Father! I-!"

"Yes, yes, I know, Draco. You don't know that I didn't kill Samuel James. But I beg of you, Draco! I implore you!" Lucius laid his hand on his son's. "Draco… please."

Draco looked up, biting the inside of his cheek. "I'll see what I can do. But I won't make any promises I can't keep."

Lucius smiled sadly and nodded, withdrawing his hand. "That's the most I can ask of you, I suppose."

Draco nodded. "I'll send an owl as soon as I hear anything, good or otherwise."

"And…" said Lucius. He shook his head and looked out the window, signaling to Draco that he'd had second thoughts about whatever he had been about to say.

"Yes?" said Draco anyhow.

"I would like a small rum cake or two. I can bear the food, but it pains me to think that I can't have that one slice of home." He looked at his son once more.

Draco nodded and stood. "I'll see you, Father." He walked to the cell and summoned one of the guards; the Dementors had largely been replaced after the Second Wizarding War, but even so one of the few remaining Dementors glided eerily to the cell door and opened it for Draco. "Like I said, I'll send an owl as I hear anything, maybe with a rum cake or two." Taking a last look at his father, Draco made his way down to the corridor, his face blank.

He had never truly forgiven his father, for his deeds in the Wizarding Wars; as a matter of fact, he had never truly forgiven himself, but even so he had never thought himself capable of killing anymore than he had though his own father of turning back to the workings of Dark Magic.

* * *

"Okay," said Ray, sighing. "We've got these gold coins which for all we know are made of gold, silver and bronze respectively. Also, we've got a very decorative wooden dowel about fifteen inches long and made of ebony. And as far as Doc Robbins can tell us, we don't know a thing about how this man died. There's no sign of poisoning, no gunshot wounds, stab wounds, and no identifiable sign of trauma." He looked up at Catherine Willows and the rest of the assembled team. "About the only connection we can find between this person and the killer is a couple of shops in the area that sell these... curios."

Catherine nodded. "I've talked to all of the shop owners I could find in the area, and none of them have an idea as to what that dowel could be. They all seemed interested, and they'd like to take a closer look at it. But they all deny ever having seen it in their shops."

"And what about these gold coins?" said Hodges. "All the gold coins are gold, all the silver ones are silver, and the bronze ones are equally real." He turned his gaze specifically to Dr. Langston. "You know that dowel you found? I took a closer look at that last night, and when I looked at the spot where I'd cut the wood for a sample, I found something inside it." He pulled out a single sheet of paper and placed it in front of Ray. "I'm still running a mass spec, but this is a transcript of my observations of the core of that dowel, or stick, or whatever you want to call it. But the closest thing I could think of that came close to what I found was some kind of very silky, very fine tail hair. Almost like horse hair, but less coarse."

Ray looked across at Hodges. "You think there's the tail hair of a horse in a beautified stick of wood?"

Hodges looked at Ray. "That's not what I was trying to say. What I meant to imply was that it was the closest thing I could think of to that unknown element." He shrugged his shoulders. "Qualitative observations, Ray. And I know, not relevant."

Ray leaned back in his chair a little bit and stared out into the middle-distance. "Not relevant, true... but it's your job to make observations, and even this... fiber, as it were, can tell me where our priorities lie as far as this case goes, even if we don't know much about the fiber."

Hodges nodded and closed his eyes. "I'll let you know as soon as I get anything from the mass spec."

It was several minutes before the team rapped up their meeting, and in that time very little was discussed aside from the very little evidence they had collected.

As Ray took the chair behind his desk immediately following the meeting, Catherine stood outside the door. "Knock-knock."

Ray looked up. "Catherine. Come in. Please. Have a seat."

"Mind if I close the door?"

"Please."

Catherine closed the door and sat in the chair before Ray's desk. "I'm not sure if you noticed, but something Hodges said didn't sit right with me."

"Oh? What would that be?"

Catherine pursed her lips and hesitated, almost as though she were deciding how best to approach a subject. "When he brought up the subject of the fiber, how it looked and felt almost like horse hair, that struck a chord with me. And it's not without reason." She looked at Ray directly. "If this fiber is what I think it is, you're going to need someone who knows their stuff, and no one in LVPD would know enough; probably not everyone combined."

Ray's eyes narrowed, and his brow lowered. "What do you mean, Catherine?"

Catherine sighed and looked down at her hands, which she splayed wide on the desk. "I'm only going to tell you so much, because that's all I can say at the moment. Believe me, I hate being cryptic; it's the last thing I ever feel like doing. But if it means solving this case, I'll do what I have to."

Ray leaned forward and gazed sternly at Catherine. "Is there something I ought to know now before you refuse to say more?"

"I can't imagine what it would be. I've already told you everything I can for the moment."

Removing his glasses, the doctor rubbed his forehead. "Catherine... we have a responsibility to this city to protect it from crime, which is a big job. If you're not going to tell me what information you have, you may not have spoken at all."

Catherine stood. "I'll talk to you as soon as Hodges has anything. See you tomorrow, Ray."

"Catherine?"

She turned.

"Be careful."

Catherine blinked. "I will."

Several days passed before anything happened. The team had been forced to put their main case on hold.

Catherine and Ray were with Hodges, each working on their own assignments when Hodges roared. "Dammit!"

Catherine looked up in surprise. "What is it, Hodges?"

Hodges turned to her. "I can't get a match on this fiber!" He held out the report. "It's genetic material! This equipment isn't rated for the stuff!"

Ray raised his eyebrows and turned to Catherine, then back to Hodges. "Have you sent it to Mia? She might have better luck at it than you obviously have."

"That I wouldn't," said Mia, entering and handing the printed sheet to Ray. "I've run it through every known database and I've come up with nothing. It's not any DNA profile anybody has on record; it's not human, it's not horse, it's not zebra. The closest thing that I could find was something between a goat and a horse, and even then it's nowhere close."

Ray turned to Catherine again and arched a brow. "Perhaps it's time you told me what information you've got that could help us?"

Catherine put her hands on her hips and looked down at her shoes, sighing. When she looked up again, the entire room was staring at her. "Sam... the fewer people who know about this, the better. This is sensitive information, and the more people involved, the more information we gain, the less likely we are to resolve the situation. Believe me, I've known people who've tried. And it never ends well."

"Try me," said Ray, turning to face her.

Catherine shook her head. "Only if no one but you and I know about this when I'm through telling you what I know, which isn't much. That's not negotiable. And if you want to see this through to the end, I recommend you take what you can get."

"Catherine, I am not going to play a guessing game."

"What we do for a living, Ray? It's a guessing game. Sure we fill in the gaps with the knowledge we have and the clues we find, but get down to the finer point and it's what it is. DNA, trace, ballistics... and Brass completes the tool set. So give me the benefit of the doubt here. Take what you can get or close the Goddamn case!"

Catherine turned and stormed down the hall to her office, closely followed by Ray, who called after her once or twice.

"Catherine!"

"Yeah, Ray?" she said, cocking her head.

"Catherine, you're a good CSI, with good deductive reasoning. I don't for a moment doubt your ability. But being cryptic isn't any way to get a case solved." Ray gazed fondly down his nose at her. "I'm sorry I have to be harsh, as hard as it is for me. But even so I genuinely would like to hear what you have to say."

Catherine smiled. "C'mon. I'll buy you a burger."

As they sat on the crowded Vegas street not far from the Strip, Catherine chugged at her Coke and sighed contentedly while Ray took a thoughtful bite of his burger. "Obviously," Catherine began, longing to take a bite of her burger, but refraining so that she could talk to Ray, "there are things in this world we'll never know. There are some things we don't know much about, things we haven't guessed at yet, some things we're not looking for... and all of those things we haven't found." She hesitated and rewrapped her burger. "Of course you already know I didn't call you out here for a late lunch."

Ray nodded. "Please continue," he said. "I'm listening." He took another bite.

"We're going to be meeting someone here who knows there stuff; it's the same area of expertise that can fill in the gaps we're missing in this case."

Ray nodded again. "What kind of expertise are we talking about?"

Catherine looked out across the street and started as the figure of a tall young girl appeared next to her, garbed in hiphugging jeans, the waistband of her low-rise underwear peering out at the world beyond. In spite of the Vegas heat, the girl wore a scarlet-colored hoodie.

As Ray turned to Catherine he noticed for the first time that the girl was sitting next to his colleague, and he watched with interest as the girl drew her hood down. "Lindsey?"

"Hey, Doctor Langston," said Lindsey, greeting him with a detached nod. She hesitated for a second, then spoke. "So where's this 'dowel' you told me about?"

Ray's gaze turned to Catherine in surprise and sudden sternness. "Catherine, you know we can't discuss an ongoing case."

"What else was I supposed to do, Ray? Wait until the bastard that killed the guy got away? As soon as Hodges told us what he'd found, I knew Vegas PD wouldn't be able to handle this without a little outside help. And Lindsey's the only person I know who'd be able to help us." Catherine produced a portfolio from beneath her light jacket and untied it, then handed an 8.5-11 photo to Lindsey, who took it and studied it.

"Well, Hodges was half-right... sort of. That's definitely a tail-hair." She shook her head and sighed through her nose. "But the wood isn't what he thought. It's a very dark mahogany."

Ray set his burger down in his lap and spoke slowly and carefully. "What kind of tail hair is it, Lindsey?"

Lindsey looked up. "It's not something I can tell you. It's something I'd have to show you in order for you to understand."

"What do you mean?"

Catherine tried to catch Ray's eye but she was unsuccessful. "Come over to my place after work tonight and I promise we'll explai as much as we can."

Ray shook his head. "I have patience; suspects is one thing. But I have no desire to be toyed with this way." In spite of his words and the sincerety of his anger and frustration in them, Ray shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. I guess I'll have to come over and see what you're talking about." _What's going on here? I'm not in control of my own actions._ And even with his traitorous thoughts, Ray knew that he had to discover what was going on, and in spite of it, or perhaps with it, the reason for Catherine's cryptic behavior.

* * *

Lindsey stepped slowly from the passenger's seat of her mother's car and threw an amused glance at her mother, cocked her head toward Catherine, and stepped forward toward a large manor. She stopped for a moment as though expecting someone to open the gate, then stepped easily through it as though it were made of smoke.

Ray looked at Catherine, who shrugged and followed her daughter; the older woman also paused, uncertain whether she should proceed, but stepped through anyhow, and turned to Ray. "You comin', Ray?"

Ray nodded and stepped through, expecting to meet smoke or mist of some kind, but finding nothing in his path. He thought he felt his eyes widen to show his shock, and with some effort he narrowed his gaze before following after Catherine and Lindsey, who now came to the main door of the house.

Lindsey knocked at the door and stood there, then turned to her mother and Ray. "He doesn't like to be disturbed, but he knows how important this is. He'll probably be a little... odd. And it won't help to have a Muggle with us." She glanced knowingly at her mother, who returned the look and cast a nervous glance at Ray, who couldn't decide between Catherine or Lindsey. To him, it was still confusion.

The door cracked open, and an old man appeared, thin and sick-looking but not without a passionate vigour in his face. "Hello, Lindsey!" He looked about at their company. "Hello," he said darkly to Ray. To the company at large, he smiled, though his eyes faltered when he rested his gaze on Ray. "Come in, please!"

Ray hesitated as he passed the old man, though he studied him curiously and quickly.

"Refreshments? Refreshments?"

"Gillywater, please," said Lindsey.

"Ray an I are here because of that... dowel... we found at a crime scene. A job," she said.

"Ah, yes. I'll be back with your drink, Lindsey, then we'll talk about it." The old man hurried out of the room and left the three to themselves.

Ray turned to Catherine in agitation. "What is this, Catherine? More cryptics? I'd have thought better of you."

"Ray, you may not believe me yet; hell, you may never believe me, but this is delicate stuff we're dealing with here. The laws of more than one society might be at stake!" She turned to Ray in near exasperation and looked him in the eye. "Believe me, Ray, when I say that I get frustrated with this stuff sometimes. I was in the same damn boat as you until Lindsey turned eleven."

Ray turned to Lindsey and raised a brow.

"As soon as I have my drink in hand, we'll talk about it. And I think it might be practical to show Ray what we're talking about."

"Here we go!" said the old man, bringing a tray bearing a plate of cookies and a glass filled with gillywater. "Help yourself if you want!" Catherine helped herself to a butterscotch cookie, but Ray abstained politely.

"Now," said the old man, sitting down and looking excitedly from Lindsey to Catherine and back, occasionally throwing a contemptuous glance at Ray. "I understand you found a wand and need my help?"

"Actually," said Catherine, "Ray found it. It was found not far from a man's body." She pulled a photograph from her jacket pocket and handed it to the man, who took it. "Any information you can provide would be useful."

The man studied the photo enthusiastically, muttering to himself, occasionally sniffling. He shook his head with a sigh as he finally handed the photograph back. "I don't think I can tell you much. But I'll tell you what I know; a dark mahogany or some variant of ebony, I guess. Nice and sturdy. The hair peering from the top is the tail hair of a unicorn, and the wand is most likely-"

"Unicorn?" interrupted Ray, standing up. "The fiber in that dowel is unicorn hair?" He turned to Catherine and Lindsey, fury obvious on his face, his cheeks quivering. "This is what you've been beating around the bush to tell me? Do you know how many laws you've broken to prove to me that you're crazy?"

"Ray, sit down and we'll-"

"No!" Ray turned to leave. "Catherine, I can't guarantee you'll be charged with anything, but I can rest assured that you'll be fired!"

"I wouldn't leave, Ray," said the old man, waving his wand.

From a room through a door on the other side of the living room, not far from the entry, a yowl could be heard that told Ray of cats.

"You've got cats, too? Wild cats? I can't believe I'm in with a bunch of lunatics and a man who owns illegal animals!"

"Look out Ray!"

Ray turned, too late, to see two huge panthers, one solid black with the outline of its spots just visible, and the other golden with vivid spots, on top of him, in the air, their claws extended.

The next moment, Ray fell back as two large blue-and-gold macaws banked away from him mid-flight; Ray had never blinked, and there had been no flash of light or puff of smoke, no mirror, nothing.

He sat gasping and spluttering, his glasses knocked askew, as the parrots landed on the old man's arm and kissed his face.

"How... how the hell did you do that?" said Ray, picking himself up and adjusting his glasses.

"Magic," said the old man, glaring at Ray as though he had startled the birds. "I'm a wizard." Ray moved over to sit opposite the old man, closest to Catherine. "I can see you still don't believe me. Should I turn you into a hedgehog, or would that suffice?"

"I don't know what I believe," returned Ray, unable to look away from the old man. "All I know is two wild cats attacked me, and the next thing I saw they were parrots, and I was on my ass."

The old man took a last, long look at Ray and returned his attentions to Catherine and Lindsey. "As I was saying, this wand is more likely an Ollivander wand. A great man, Ollivander, and I don't doubt that his best efforts could even match my own work." He produced a shaft of wood twelve inches long and looked at it, sighing. Engraved in gold lettering on the wand was _Miller's Wands._

_

* * *

_

Draco stood before the mirror in his room, studying himself. His pale face, pointed nose and blonde hair he had inherited from his father; had he also inherited the capability of holding a dark secret that could save or condemn?


	3. Muggle at the Ministry

"I'm really not sure about this, Catherine," said Ray, stepping up to the fireplace and holding the foul-smelling green powder in his hand. "Are you sure this works?"

"If I wasn't, Ray, would we be here? Look; this case is the oddest one we've had in a while, and the only one to my knowledge that has ever involved members of both magical and Muggle communities. If we don't stop whoever this dirt bag is, a lot more people could die. And the only thing stopping this person is the knowledge of the eyes of the Muggle community."

Ray shook his head. "It's still difficult to process all this. Twenty-four hours ago, I was chastising you for being cryptic. Now I've got to take your word for every little thing."

"Not my word now… Lindsey's. From here on out, you'll be looking to her for just about every aspect of the magical community to solve this one. But I tell ya, I can't promise results. All I can promise is that if you need help with something, Lindsey has the connections you'll need to survive."

"Access to CODIS and IAFIS?"

"She'll send it back here. There are more direct lines to Vegas than Floo Powder, but in order to solve this case you might also need someone at the British Ministry." Catherine sighed and placed her hand on Ray's arm. "Be safe. And try not to drop too much Floo Powder before you even throw it in the fireplace."

Ray nodded. "Thank you." Ray threw the powder into the grate and picked up his case, inhaled, and stepped into the fireplace. As he opened his mouth to speak, he choked on ash, but kept his head. "British Ministry of Magic." There was an immediate sensation of spinning, and Ray found himself tumbling past blurs of fireplaces in other houses. For a moment he tried to watch as the whirling fireplaces passed, then realized that if he did not shut his eyes, he would vomit.

Shutting his eyes tight, Ray counted the year-long seconds, trying hard not to open his eyes and fall out of the wrong grate.

Several minutes later, as Ray began to think that something might have gone wrong, and what he should do if it had, he felt himself sail headfirst from this portal and land hard on his knees; his case flew several yards, and as he fell onto his hands, he vomited directly onto the cold floor, which would have been a welcome compress for his head a moment or two before.

"Dr. Raymond Langston?" said a voice from ahead of him.

Ray looked up and wiped his mouth to see a tall, bald black man in lilac-colored robes, a gold hoop in his left ear. "That's me."

"Welcome to the British Ministry of Magic. I'm Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt. I was told by a friend that you would be arriving today to attempt to solve the murder of a man in America?"

Ray nodded. "Yes. I'll be... trying to do that." Ray groaned as he climbed unsteadily to his feet.

"Here. Let me help you." The Minister took Ray under the arm and led him to a chair in front of a great oak desk. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Some... some cold water would help... if it's no trouble."

"No trouble at all." The Minister produced his wand and flourished it in the air before him, catching a glass of icewater from thin air and handing it to Ray, who took it and thanked him. As Ray noted the satisfactory, reassuring quality of the condensation on his glass, the Minister spoke. "It may be one of seven exceptions to Galpalott's laws of Magic, but water is water."

Ray sighed as he set down his half-emptied glass. "'Laws of Magic?' What, you mean like the laws of physics?"

Minister Shacklebolt laughed and shook his head. "Not quite. Though close. And even today, there are still wonders of magic that we continue to discover. Only last week, we approved a brilliant step forward in the search to invent a self-spelling wand."

Ray sighed. "This is... interesting, Minister... but I have a case to solve, if you don't mind."

The Minister nodded. "Of course." As the Minister stood, a roaring and crackling of flame made itself known, and Ray turned to behold Lindsey, who had just emerged from the fireplace and was now dusting off the knees of her jeans. "Lindsey Willows. Kingsley Shacklebolt, British Minister for Magic."

"Hello, Minister." She looked down and realized that she was standing in Ray's puddle of sick. "Can't say I don't feel the same way myself." She flourished her wand and Vanished the puddle of sick and the stuff on her shoes. "So have the two of you got to talking about the case yet?"

Kingsley shook his head. "I have been attempting to revive Raymond."

Ray shuddered as the nauseous feeling continued to subside within him. "I have a few questions for Mr... Olivander, when I'm able to find the strength."

"Of course, Raymond." He crossed to his desk and leaned forward. "I understand that there may be a wand involved?"

"We have a wand," said Raymond, removing a photograph from his inner pocket. "Do you recognize it?"

"I do recognize it, yes... it is the wand of Lucius Malfoy, who I'm afraid to say has been incarcerated for that same crime."

"And you couldn't find the wand?"

"I admit, we had been helping the American Ministry to track down the wand, but we had only got as far as the point to and from which Mr. Malfoy had Apparated in Las Vegas." The Minister handed the photo back to Ray. "All the evidence leads to Lucius; he is implicated in every way we could determine."

"I was reading the other day," said Lindsey, sitting on the edge of the Minister's desk, "about a test on the wand itself? I think it was called..."

"_Priori incantatem_, yes. But we had not a wand on which to test it." Kingsley turned to Ray. "Do you have it with you?"

Ray nodded, then pulled the shaft of wood from the case and handed it carefully to the Minister, handle first, the same way he would hand over a gun.

The Minister pulled his own wand from his pocket and allowed the tips to touch. "_Priori incantatem_," he murmured. A whisp of smoke blossomed from the end of the implicated wand; the smoke immediately began to take form, and soon resembled the victim. "Unfortunately, it is possible for a wizard to conquer the master of the wand and use it, and even with this knowledge most wizards would look merely at the implicated wand, not the memories of the person who had been accused of the crime. We have done that, and while we can find no indication thereof, we know for certain that this is his wand."

"You can examine memories?"

"Directly, yes, Dr. I was directly involved in Lucius' interrogation. He was cooperative, and gave us what we wanted. Unfortunately, these matters are not my concern, and I was ushered away from Azkaban prison before I was given the opportunity to get Mr. Malfoy's version of events leading up to the realization of his missing wand." Kingsley sighed. "I apologize, Lindsey, if I have not offered you a refreshment."

"It's fine," said Lindsey, who was sipping from a glass of brandy. She raised her eyebrows in sarcasm at Ray's look of incredulity. "I'm seventeen... and thus legal in the Wizarding world."

"And I'm guessing," said Raymond slowly, "that certain aspects of Wizarding law supercede Muggle law?"

Lindsey nodded. She turned back to Kingsley Shacklebolt. "Thank you for the offer though, Minister."

Raymond pursed his lips, trying to bring his thoughts into order, and was about to speak when a sheet of paper folded to resemble an aerodynamic bird entered the room through and settled itself on the Minister's desk. "If you will forgive me..." he said, unfolding the paper and scanning its contents. His brow furrowed as he read on. "My... this is a sad day indeed." He sighed and set the paper down, then studied his two guests. "It appears as though you will not be able to speak with the esteemed Mr. Ollivander... He has just died."

"How?"

The Minister shrugged. Picking up the piece of paper, he said, "It is not a cause I am familiar with, but I believe it is called a 'heart attack.'" He sighed and leaned forward heavily in his chair. "The British Ministry has recently taken to sciences not dissimilar to Muggle medicine and law enforcement. It was mainly at the request of a wizard named Nathan Delling. Incidentally, he will be your envoy while you are here."

"When do we meet him?" said Lindsey, putting the bottle of brandy back into the pocket of her robe.

"The two of you will be staying in room seven at the _Leaky Cauldron_. Mr. Delling will meet you both tonight at five o'clock." The Minister stood. "I apologize if I must be in a hurry, but I have several other appointments I must keep." The Minister stood and shook Ray's hand, then Lindsey's. "I hope you soon discover the truth behind this most unfortunate incident."

Ray nodded. "That's what I do for a living, Minister."

* * *

Ray sat and enjoyed a Butterbeer in _the Leaky Cauldron_, attempting to integrate his mind into this fantastical world that could not possibly exist. He sighed and shook his head, reviewing the evidence yet again. No, this world could exist. The only reason he still did not believe it was that he refused to see the evidence as it was put in front of him. And yet... There was still something out-of-place.

"Enjoying your Butterbeer, Mr. Langston?" said Siobhan, who had just finished cleaning the bar glasses. "Need anything else?"

"No, thank you." Raymond smiled at her, setting down his bottle. "So how long have you been running this place?" he said, looking around and gesturing at his surroundings. "It must be hard sometimes, keeping up with the weary traveler."

Siobhan smiled and laughed, shaking her head. "It is sometimes difficult. Wizards from Britain, Mainland Europe, Asia, Africa, the Americas... not three days back, I had a whole great party in from Australia. They were gents, yes. A little loud, but not unkind or ungrateful. And they left the place better than they found it. Still have daisies coming in the vase behind the bar every day. Must be enchanted, somehow." Her eyes glowed, and she sighed as though she were reminiscing. "And as for your first question, I forgot to answer." She strode over to the chair across from Raymond and sat, leaning back. "Well, I inherited the _Cauldron_ from Tom, the old barman and my father, make no mistake. This was the same year, unfortunately, that I graduated from Hogwarts, which is seven... no, eight years, now. And I'd been eighteen at the time. So can you imagine, little me, at twenty-six, not being lonely on occasion while I'm running this place?" She chuckled and looked out the window, a sense of nostalgia crossing her face.

"Have you ever thought about leaving?" said Raymond, leaning forward and finding her gaze.

Siobhan laughed. "No, Mr. Langston! Sometimes I've been tempted to take a long holiday, but I've never dreamed of leaving. This is how my father earned his living, and near four generations of us Flemings, now. Besides, I love running the _Cauldron_! It's the only place that feels really like home to me. Hogwarts was good, sure, but here..." She sighed and smiled. "Sometimes I do get a little lonely, but someday I'll meet Mrs. Right."

The phrase "Mrs. Right" surprised Raymond, though not to the point that he found it shocking. "You definitely will, Siobhan. You can have anything you want, if only you have the mind to ask for it."

The door onto the streets of Muggle London opened, and Raymond looked around to see a tall, heavy man of about nineteen enter wearing a robin's-egg-blue robe that had moments before been under a golden-colored traveling cloak. His wire-framed glasses were perched on an average nose, and his hair was a neatly-combed mane about his face. He was beardless and wore no moustache. "Dr. Langston?" he said, advancing with his hand outstretched. "I'm Nathan Delling."


	4. Working Backwards

"Argh! Where did you go?" Standing upright and running her hands through her bushy, shoulder-length brown hair, Hermione Weasley heaved a sigh and growled. "I know I put it here somewhere!" Lately at the Ministry, in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Hermione had been given long, arduous assignments, which she hoped would one day mark her as a hard worker; and while Ron adamantly believed that she was working far too hard for her to actually go anywhere in the Department, Hermione disliked so much the idea of Magical Creatures being regulated the way they had in the past. _Especially under Umbridge,_ she thought bitterly, picking up a sheaf of parchment and scanning it before letting it fall back onto her creaking, groaning desk. "Argh! Where's Ronald when I need him?"

The moment she had spoken, she felt a hand on her backside, and she turned to see Ron standing close behind her, grinning ear to ear. "Looking for something, Hermione?" he said, his breath tickling her neck.

"Yes, Ronald..." said Hermione, unable to move for the sheer erotic pleasure his voice sent thrilling through her.

"And why don't you take five minutes to calm yourself down?" he said, placing a hand on her stomach and burrowing under the waistband of her jeans - she leaned into his body, which was so close to hers, and she felt his erect member pressing against her buttock. "Just enough time to relax and not worry about anything." Were they really going to do this now? She was so... ooh...! "No worrying when you're like this, eh?" he said, pressing his lips to the back of her neck and reaching under her shirt with his available hand. He fondled her breast, squeezing it and examining it.

"Ron..." murmured Hermione, her eyes closed and her breathing ragged. "Ron, are we really going to do this?"

"You tell me..." said Ron mischeivously. God, was his huge, pulsating...?

"Yes..." she said, turning to face him and stooping, cupping the lump in his pants. "Yes... just right now...!" She undid his belt skillfully and pulled at the snap on his jeans, bringing the zipper all the way down. She looked up at him and smiled greedily, squeezing his enormous member and stroking slowly, sensuously. "I know you like that..." she said, using Ron's own tricks against him. "I know you like it when I wank you. Don't deny it, Ronald!"

Ron groaned and leaned back as Hermione pulled out Ron's throbbing, scalding member through the john hole in his briefs.

"Yes..." she said, wet in spite of herself. "Yes..." She smiled as he groaned again and leaned his head back. When she was pleased with his position... how she would so have loved to put her mouth on his cock... she squeezed and twisted, catching Ron's testicles with the base of it. "Ronald Bilius Weasley! When I'm working, I don't want to do that with you, no matter how much I need it! I need that fucking parchment!"

"I don't know what... you're... talking about...!" Ron whimpered, unable to fall to his knees with Hermione's hand on his massive shaft.

"Either way..." said Hermione, squeezing harder and giving another little twist. "Either help me look for it, or have this thing clucking like a hen the rest of the month!"

"All... argh... right...!" Ron sniffed in pain, whimpering, his lip trembling.

Hermione released Ron, who fell to his knees and panted. His body trembled. "Was... was that totally... necessary?"

"No," said Hermione simply, Scourgifying and drying her hand with a couple of flourishes of her wand. "But it made me feel better. Relaxed me." She smirked with her back turned as she said it, throwing it back at him.

"What the bloody hell...?" As Ron leaned on the desk, his hand slipped and parchment flew everywhere.

"Oh, Ronald...!" Hermione was about to aim her fist at his john, which had been hastily returned to his briefs, when she saw what she had been looking for. "Oh!" She turned to her husband, the parchment in her hand. "Thank you, Ronald. You're a big help!" She kissed his lips and pulled back, smiling. "I guess now I can give you what you wanted in the first place..." She smirked.

"Oh, no! After what you did to me, I'm not letting you near my wanker for a month!" Ron stepped back and buckled his belt.

Hermione feigned astonishment. "That's a pretty heavy promise, Ronald!" Smirking suggestively, she added, "Especially when you see what I had in mind."

* * *

Dr. Langston sighed and finished his fourth Butterbeer of the past hour; in spite of his filling bladder, he wanted to find out what Mr. Delling had to say. He wanted to find out as much as possible. "You understand that I can't have you interfering with the investigation?" said Raymond, splaying his hands on the table. "That would allow the killer an opportunity to get away."

Nathan shook his head. "I'll try to stay out of your way. But..." said Nathan, raising a finger both to emphasize a point and to keep Raymond from protesting before he could finish, "I grew up with Muggles, and I have a lot of Muggle friends, all of whom know I'm a wizard. More to the point, though, I have something you might find useful, which I developed while watching some of my friends work." He stood and unbuttoned his robe, then allowed three objects to fall to the floor. When he was satisfied with their placement, he removed his robe and hung it over his chair.

Raymond watched with great intrigue as he realized that the three objects were in fact the legs of a tripod, which held up an instrument not unlike a typewriter attached to a record player. _An old gramophone,_ he reminded himself, having seen a few.

"This," said Nathan, "is how I've caught at least fourteen wizards. It's my equivelant of what you might call a mass spectrometer. The thing is, though, that the databases are incomplete. I still have a lot of people to catch, and plenty more to sample. But even with the hundred or so people on the books, it can run a full analysis in minutes, while your machines might take a week or more." He smiled and looked over at Dr. Langston. "What d'you think?"

Raymond smiled in return and nodded to it. "Does it work?"

Nathan nodded, plucked a hair from his head, and placed it in a phial, which went into the gramophone-like part. "It'll still be a few minutes, but we'll have results. And put together the database with everything important about the people on record; name, age, birthdate, height and weight, convictions... and of course, I have to put their wand specifications in, too. Length, wood, core and physical description. Because no wands are alike," he explained at a look of confusion on Raymond's face. "I forget this is pretty new to you."

Dr. Langston shook his head and sat back in his chair. "That's fine. We're all human, right?"

"Not all of us," said a voice behind Raymond. Turning, Raymond found himself looking up into the eyes of a blonde-haired, roan-bodied centaur, well-muscled and kind-faced. "My name is Firenze."

Raymond nodded. "Raymond Langston."

"A pleasure, sir." He smiled and sighed. "I apologize if I have interrupted something."

"Not at all," replied Raymond and Nathan simultaneously.

Raymond stood and stretched. "We were just having a discussion about how this machine works."

"Quickly," said Nathan Delling, tearing a piece of parchment from a slot on the typewriter-like portion of the machine and handing it to Raymond. "You'll know all about me when you look at that."

"Facts... not really anything about you," corrected Raymond, his eyes quickly scanning the parchment. "Are there any errors in this?"

"Not the information," replied Nathan, patting it affectionately. "The machine, though, still has some bugs we have to work out. Even so, it's pretty reliable. There's really not a lot to complain about, but every once in a while, shit happens."

"Undoubtedly," said Raymond, handing the parchment back to Nathan. "Tomorrow, I'd like to talk to anyone who might be able to tell us anything about the wand we found on the victim." He folded his hands on the table in front of him.

"Be careful, Raymond Langston," said the centaur, who placed a hand on Ray's shoulder. "Mars was unusually bright last night. And I would not rush to any conclusions in your works."

Raymond smiled and nodded. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."

The centaur left, and Nathan sighed. "Sometimes it's difficult to figure out what Firenze is talking about. Same with any centaur. But they really seem to know what they're talking about." He looked at Ray, who raised a brow, and nodded. "I remember what you said before we were interrupted. And yes, I agree. I hear his great-great-great granddaughter, Marina Cromwell, might be able to give us an idea as to the wand's specifics."

"Don't you mean, 'specifications?'"

Nathan shook his head. "No. Specifics. How long ago Ollivander crafted it, how long it was in his store, how he obtained the elements that made the wand when combined. All of this is important."

Raymond nodded and made a mental note. "Then I also want to talk to Lucius Malfoy. Maybe we'll be able to figure out who might have wanted the victim dead."

Nathan shook his head, his eyes on his knuckles on the table. "That's not going to be easy, Dr. Mr. Malfoy's in the damn tightest-ass prison in the world. You can't just stroll in and ask to see him, even with fewer Dementors there these days."

Ray's brow furrowed. "'Dementors?'"

"Yes. Guards of Azkaban Prison. They're big, hooded and cloaked. They're invisible to Muggles, and whenever they're near, one will feel the joy and happiness sucked out of their surroundings." Nathan shuddered. "They fly, though generally they prefer to glide a few inches off the ground. Not at all something I'd want you around. Being a Muggle... I can't imagine you'd survive more than a few minutes before they sucked your soul out through your mouth." He looked nervously at Ray. "I'm not scaring you, am I?"

Ray paused, then shook his head. "No. I mean, I've seen a lot in the past couple of days, but I don't think I'm educated enough to be scared of... what did you call them? Dementors?"

"Yeah," said Nathan, sighing. "Well, I've got to turn in. I'll be in room three if you need. And I'll get your bill. Even if Catherine and Lindsey have some gold on them, it's the least I can do."

Raymond went up to his room some time later, sitting on his bed and sighing. He had to admit, he had had a tough day in spite of the relatively light workload he had to contend with. Then again... could all of this be real? Was it possible that he was in London, and that he had traveled across the Atlantic simply by stepping into a fireplace? The thought was too much for him right now.

Instead of dwelling on this, he went over to the mirror, took off his glasses, and ran a hand over his face. "Raymond... you have got to accept that this is real," he said to himself. His eyes bulged and he leaped back when a voice responded to him.

"Talking to yourself in the third person," it said, "is a definite sign of madness."

"Who said that?" said Raymond, eyeing the mirror suspiciously. He looked around the room for liklier suspects but found none.

"What?" said the mirror. "You don't appreciate friendly advice from your mirror?"

"I grew up in a world," said Raymond, "where unless someone is crazy, they don't appreciate advice from their mirror. At all."

"Oh," said the mirror, sounding affronted. "Then I guess I'll just be quiet. And when you make to leave the room, I'll say something rude behind your back." There was a sound of the mirror blowing a raspberry, and then Raymond found himself alone in silence.

He sighed, then turned and made his way to his suitcase, from which he produced a pair of pajama bottoms. As he turned to close the bathroom door behind him, he distinctly heard the mirror mutter to itself, "Dumbass."

* * *

Raymond Langston strode into the wand shop, looking around at the boxes stacked right up to the ceiling.

"May I help you?" said a small, younger woman with a bright, youthful face.

Ray looked around the shop. "Yes. I was wondering whether someone would be able to tell me something about a particular wand." He pulled out the shaft of wood and handed it to the witch.

The witch's face went blank as she studied the wand, muttering to herself. _"Orchidius,"_ she muttered, producing a bouquet of chrysanthemums from the end of the wand. "I see," she said, handing it back to him. "This particular wand was sold to a Samuel James nearly fifty years ago."

Ray nodded. "Samuel James. Do you know anything about him?"

"Yes," said the witch, walking away and ordering the stacked boxes slightly. "He's a good man with a career in experimental herbology, authorized of course by the Ministry. He's family-oriented, though, although he's never had children, never married." She looked back at Raymond, then glanced at Delling. "May I inquire as to what this is about?"

Raymond looked at Delling, who nodded. "Mr. James is dead. He was murdered."

"What...?" She stepped back and shook her head. "It can't... of course, I'd heard rumors, but..."

"You don't read the _Prophet_, then?" said Delling, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't pay attention to the news at all, Mr. Delling. Not even the _Quibbler_! And the reason I know you is, of course, the fact that you were in the shop when Mr. Ollivander, bless his soul, sold you your wand."

Delling nodded. "Maybe you remember the specifications of my wand?"

"Ash, six inches, dragon heartstring. Rather strong, good for Transfiguration."

"That's correct." Delling sighed and pulled out a slip of parchment, studied it for a moment, then replaced it. "Does Mr. James have any surviving family?"

The witch shook her head. "Nor can I name any of his colleagues or friends. I'm afraid I can't help you there."

Raymond nodded and turned to Delling, who did the same. "Thank you, Ms. Ollivander. We'll be in touch."


End file.
